


Seraph

by pwopahnetazeta



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Memories, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwopahnetazeta/pseuds/pwopahnetazeta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow was His favorite weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seraph

**Author's Note:**

> This was writen a while back for something else altogether. When I wrote this, I pictured the boys in mind.  
> My very first post here on AO3! How exciting!! :)  
> Enjoy:)

Snow was His favorite weather.

The snowflakes reminded him of all he had lost.  
Snow was definitely not his favorite weather. It fell slowly to the ground, sinking its way leisurely into the depths, losing itself from the great grey unknown.  
Millions of falling angels, He used to call it.

Suddenly he felt the side of his face, from high cheek bone to low jaw bone, burst in pain that morphed into burning hot freezing skin.  
He remembered that day. They were playing outside in the old forgotten graveyard, building ice forts, turning back time to when they both only had a single digit to answer when asked of their age. He was nailed straight in the face with a snowball, so condensed that it would have been more correctly named an ice-ball. Exploding in his face and crawling into the most kept parts of his down-coat-covered body, breaking the invisible temperature border and freezing him from the inside, he was shown to the loser's lair. He always liked to play dirty.  
A dull but slowly growing ache in his tailbone threw him back to that horrendous day when that liar of a sun appeared up in the unusually clear blue sky, leaving in its wake thousands of puddle looking death traps. It had only taken a slight shove from Him for him to lose his footing, step into said death trap, and break his inevitable landing with his own tail bone, thus, leaving him broken. He was teased at for weeks upon weeks as sitting became a problem.  
The feeling of a long gash to his eyebrow made him automatically check for bleeding, sending him to the time He made him crawl backwards, 'like a "snow crab"' He had called it, and into an electric pole when he had lost a dare.  
A sudden throb in the middle of his shin, and he recollected that horrid skiing holiday that definitely did not turn out as enjoyable as they had planned being.  
His skull throbbed the same way it had at the accident when he hit a patch of black ice on the road while coming back from His parents for the first time.  
He could feel his big toe snapping once more, the same way it had a when He had stomped his foot down on the ground in the middle of a temper tantrum, only to unfortunately catch his toe under one of the shears of his ice-skates.  
He could feel his abdomen bruise the same way it did when they had chased the infamous black headed sheep in the snowy meadow, and He chased him right into a snow-hidden wire fence.  
His palm grew blisters on the canvas of a red that was almost grey from trying to re-arrange, on His command, one of the logs in the fireplace of a forgotten hotel cabin.  
His stomach turned in remembrance of stale eggnog, and the long night they shared on the black and white tiles of their bathroom floor.  
His eye bloomed black from a well-earned punch from Him when both were miserably drunk one Christmas eve.  
His back colored angry red down his spine from a freezing, pleasurable night involving a power outage and candles.  
The base of the fourth finger of his left hand stung in the absence of the promise of a promise.

The millions of scars left on his skin from their time together were slowly re-opening in unison. Blood start to drip out of his body in a terrifying crimson, marring the perfect pristine underneath. The old bruises surfacing his skin once more.The countless broken bones, twisted ankles and sprains aching in their rise.  
His pain was becoming unbearable.

He stepped out into the snow in barely a stitch.  
He was a mad man, he knew it. But then again, no one in the history of this planet was madder than Him. It actually used to be one of their most beloved inside jokes. He was Alice, and He was the mad hatter. It suited them. After all, they had both kept their roles. He was forced back into the world of truth, He staying back in His own wonderland.   
Why did he always have to be Alice?  
He was not sure why he thought the below freezing temperature would help ease his pain. Maybe he wished for Him to show himself to him once more and take it all away, His imagined touch to salve the skin and mend the bones.

But His favorite weather was snow of course, and when it fell, He would run outside at once, leaving everything behind and lose himself in His pure bliss.  
And it was that snow that felt like acid seeping into his blood-stream from the infinite open wounds that were adorning his body. He was burning him from the inside again.  
And then he knew he could never get Him out of his system.  
It did not solve a thing, but for once, no one was telling him to forget, to move on and start anew. He knew even He would have wanted him to do so. To take a step into the future without Him holding his hand when he stepped alone into the unknown.  
Firsts were one of the things he was most afraid of.   
His first birthday without him. His first birthday without Him. The looming date of Christmas in just a few weeks, a Christmas that would be his first Christmas alone. He was not ready for it. He was not ready for anything anymore.  
The burn though, the burn made Him be there. All of a sudden, the pain was his brain's way of placing Him right where He should have been, at his side, always.

For a few moments that pain became an addiction.  
And suddenly, He, the freak whom was the synonym of his infliction of pain, became a constant in his existence. Something he thought he had lost forever.  
And the snow became his drug.   
The falling petals, the same ones that were his drugs of pain that rushed inside him in the steady rhythm of his pump, were also the ones to wake one of his last memories of Him. A memory in which he told him to go on, to never fight the inevitable "what ifs", and lastly, to never give up on himself, to never let himself stoop so low he'd stop trying and just wither away into nothing.  
And he knew he had to obey Him.  
He argued himself to withdraw from his drug, to withdraw from his addiction. He forced himself to keep promises that were made in watery eyes and snotty noses. And in a too familiar manner, he argued with Him too.  
He lost.  
He re-took his steps and entered their once shared home.  
And he found himself in the same barely covered body, in that same house, looking outside from the glass window that was in the middle of the bolted cast-steel door, watching the snow fall down in its flourished way that was almost as elegant as he was.  
He could almost see Him through the mist again, tongue trying to catch the falling crystals.  
And for once, he was stone.

Snow was His favorite weather.


End file.
